


Solving Mysteries

by Sanguinifex (Eros_Scribens)



Series: The Bisexual Awakening of John Fitzgerald Byers [4]
Category: The Lone Gunmen (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Sex, Canon Era, Case Fic, Choking, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, Hotel Sex, Humiliation, Inadvisable Lube, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Prostate Milking, Secret Relationship, Sexual Dysfunction, Suit Kink, Tie Kink, Two Bottoms in a Room, Wet Dream, improvised lube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 17:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eros_Scribens/pseuds/Sanguinifex
Summary: When a case takes the LGM to Decorah, Iowa, it just makes Langly get more creative about hooking up. Byers learns more about how to use his own butt.





	Solving Mysteries

It was a good thing Frohike was driving, because Byers would have been much too distracted. Langly was asleep against the passenger side door. That wasn’t particularly unusual—Langly tended to get carsick if he was awake for long car rides, so he usually knocked himself out with Benadryl—but he didn’t usually get such _interesting_ dreams. His position didn’t at all hide the tent in his jeans, and Byers couldn’t help wondering what Langly was dreaming about; wondering if _he_ featured in those dreams. Trying not to be obvious (even if Frohike was mostly focused on the road), he watched Langly. The man seemed younger, asleep; all the wariness and sarcasm drained away.

Langly tensed as Byers stared out of his peripheral vision, then relaxed, curling in on himself, towards the window. He was still fast asleep, but now he was muttering about aliens and meatloaf. Obviously the sex dream had ended. Byers couldn’t smell any semen over the diesel fumes from the truck in front of them. He felt oddly disappointed at that, even if Frohike was much less likely to notice, that way. He tried to will those thoughts away. He was in the van, stuck next to Frohike, and without the excuse of being asleep if he got a proper boner. Also, he didn’t want to have to find a dry cleaner in Decorah, Iowa, which was where they were going.

Byers shook Langly awake at the motel.

“Are we at meteorite town yet?” asked Langly, sitting up, and then grimacing as he noticed the state of his underwear. “Ugh.”

“I don’t think Frohike noticed,” said Byers. Frohike was inside the lobby paying for the room.

“I thought I grew out of this,” grumped Langly. “Stupid vibrating seats…”

Byers knew exactly what he meant. But yeah, that hadn’t been a problem for him since his teens, either. The road had been pretty rough tonight, though, and Langly had been asleep. Sleep did weird things to dicks.

“You packed spare underwear?” he said.

“Obviously.” Langly leaned against the van. “Did it turn you on?”

“What? Oh. A little.”

“How long before Frohike’s back?”

“Are you nuts?”

“Dude, you’ve got a semi.”

“That’s just my pants.” Byers was wearing the pleated ones.

Langly gave him A Look.

“Okay fine! But I think Frohike’s coming back.”

Frohike tossed keys to Byers and Langly. Langly dropped his, and Frohike had to get out his flashlight to find them. But pretty soon, they were in a motel room, and Langly was building a “third bed” with the bedspreads, the extra pillows, and a chair cushion. Byers had offered to share beds once, ages before The Thing With The Suit, but Langly had refused, preferring to sleep in the bathtub rather than be seen in bed with another man. Byers suspected he was afraid of being accused of perving after the fact, even or especially because he wasn’t open about his “flexibility.”

Byers had the sudden realization that he, too, now needed to take such precautions. Not that he’d ever been a very physically affectionate person, but it was a strange new layer of restriction to sense, even if he wasn’t actively bumping into it. He suspected he’d get no sympathy from Langly about it. Langly had probably had to deal with it in high school locker rooms, depending on when he’d realized it. Byers was glad he’d missed out on that.

And then Frohike went out to smoke, and Langly sprawled on the mound of pillows in a way that was probably supposed to look inviting. It actually looked like he’d had a horrible shopping accident at Ikea.

“Are you seriously?” asked Byers.

“Yeah,” said Langly, tucking his thumbs into his waistband and angling his fingers suggestively. “Let’s do it quick, while Frohike’s out.”

“It’s not enough time!”

“Sure it is! He always wants two cigs after a drive like that.”

“For you, maybe.”

“What if I pull your tie?”

That got Byers’ attention. Or, at least, his pants’ attention. “Okay,” he said, grabbing a box of hotel Kleenex and sitting down beside Langly. “This is a terrible idea, and I’m blaming you if Frohike catches us, and I’m hoping you have something in mind for how we’re doing this, because I don’t.” Byers began to unzip his pants, mentally calculating how likely Frohike was to be homophobic (low) and whether the two of them could lock Frohike in the bathroom if he _was_ homophobic and steal the van keys (high).

“I’ll lightly choke you with your tie, and you jerk both of us?” If Langly was making the same sort of calculations, he didn’t show it.

“Sure,” said Byers, swallowing hard. This was madness. He was doing it anyway. Langly was gripping his tie, tightening it around his neck, and he had one hand on Langly’s penis and the other on his own. And he wasn’t all the way hard yet, but Langly was, and he moved his hand the way he would on himself. He realized he was using his right hand on himself, which he usually didn’t. The rhythm was all wrong, not what his body expected. It was frustrating, more than anything.

Langly whispered filth in his ear as he tugged on his tie. All the horrors he wanted to inflict on Byers’ suits; burning, slashing, muddying, wrinkling, putting through the wash cycle on hot. That his tie was more manly than his actual cock, which sounded thrillingly, sickeningly demeaning until Byers considered that the statement made absolutely no sense. The idea, though, of some sort of tie/penis hybrid that could actually make its silk weave get erect and spray…something suit-related, probably cologne over the rest of the suit? Byers shivered and tried to moan, gasping around the tie choking him.

Langly was making less and less sense, and getting louder and louder in his ear, and Byers was pretty sure that meant he was close. He was also leaking on Byers’ hand, but Langly just seemed to do that, he recalled from the one other time he’d actually been up close and personal with Langly’s dick. Whatever he was doing, which was pretty much what he’d do with himself, it seemed to be working, and he just kept doing it, as Langly’s dirty talk began to resemble an eroticized version of a manifesto, until with a final “Fuck!,” Langly pulled on his tie so hard that Byers saw stars, and came in Byers’ hand. Byers was glad he’d thought to grab the Kleenex.

Langly reached for Byers’ dick, having remembered that humans needed to breathe. Byers stopped him.

“Frohike’s got to be done smoking by now.”

“Think of me when you’re jerking off in the bathroom,” Langly quipped.

“I was going to just leave it. Some of us didn’t sleep all the way from…wherever the heck we had lunch yesterday.”

The room phone rang. Byers picked up, like he usually did for the three of them.

It was Frohike, from the car phone. “There’s supposed to be an all-night diner a few blocks down the street, and I’m hungry. You two want anything?”

Byers blessed the man’s apparent unwillingness to walk inside. Or maybe he just thought that he should use the car phone enough to justify paying the bill for having it. “Langly, you want diner food?” he asked, pulling the receiver away from his ear.

“Burger and fries. Lots of fries. Onion rings, too, if they have them. Nothing on the burger except cheese.”

Byers repeated it into the phone. “Chicken sandwich for me,” he added.

“Burger, chicken sandwich, fries, onion rings. Got it.“ Frohike hung up.

“So I guess this means you do get a happy ending,” said Langly, grinning.

Byers looked down at himself. He realized his pants were still open, though he’d gotten his dick back into his underwear. “Less ‘ending,’ more ‘most of the thing all over again.’”

“Get over here,” said Langly, rolling his eyes and patting one of the pillows. “I think you liked ‘licking the shoes of corporate overlords as they step on your tie.’”

Byers groaned, sitting down. “That’s objectively awful.”

“And yet you’re turned on by it.”

He was, dammit. Though half the blame went to Langly’s hands on him, greedily pulling his cock out of his briefs.

“You like the humiliation just as much as the suits.”

“Yeah,” said Byers raggedly. Langly’s hands moved in different patterns than his own would have, but they moved rough and fast and found all the little places he always leaned into.

“You should see yourself. All fucking rumpled with your pants unbuttoned and your shirt untucked. If someone came back now, there’s absolutely no doubt what you’ve been doing. Getting off in a filthy motel room like every other straight acting man on the down-low. And you love it.”

“Ngggh” said Byers, thrusting into Langly’s hands. He wasn’t sure if Langly was intentionally pulling on his tie again, or just kneeling on it. Or intentionally kneeling on it. Despite his earlier protests of objective awfulness, the idea of being naked except for his tie and a detachable shirt collar and being forced to his hands and knees by someone stepping on his tie came to him, and for once Byers gave himself leave to imagine other humiliating things. Shoes pressing his head into the floor, both oxfords and high-heeled pumps. People pouring milk on him (which had been a particularly awful sort of bullying back in middle school, because then you smelled like sour milk all afternoon), and then semen and spit. His imaginary suit (well, shirt collar and tie, or maybe the rest of his clothes were on the ground beside him) was utterly ruined, and through it all, Langly’s hands were still on him, and that was another humiliating thing, the prospect of being naked and hard and begging in public, in a room full of fully clothed people.

“You know what’s a proper job for you?” Langly was saying. “You should be the executive cumdump for all of Congress. All those senators and representatives using you like you’re just a pair of holes—spare some interns, hah. Just fucking you in the middle of Capitol Hill, like whatever it’s called where they do the votes and stuff. Just an orgy as all the senators paint your face white and shove an eagle up your ass—” Langly broke off laughing. “Oh god, that’s just too funny. I can’t. Fucking _eagles_. I’m going to see if there’s a dildo of that and if it costs less than thirty dollars. Because you totally would shove an eagle dildo up your ass, you patriotic dumbfuck. And you’re still getting off on this.”

Byers suspected that had more to do with Langly touching him. Still, the idea of being used by all the US Senators and Representatives…it was compelling. The dildos, though… “Please no star-spangled dildos,” he said. That just seemed wrong. Senators. Think of senators. Or maybe Mrs. Clinton.

“So you would like getting used by the entire US government?” Langly had noticed that Byers hadn’t objected to anything _other_ than the dildos.

“Yes,” panted Byers. His dick was starting to feel chafed, but he needed more.

“All those important men, holding you down and yanking your tie and getting cum on your suit…”

And there it was, that final flush of heat that could turn into release. Byers chased it, thinking more about the mechanics of his own thrusting and Langly’s fingers than about anything Langly was saying, and _finally_ tipped over the edge, gasping for air as his insides clenched, less with pleasure and more with relief. He lay back on Langly’s improvised bed, waiting for his pulse to stop pounding.

Most people would have asked if he were okay. Langly just started poking him.

“Ow,” said Byers.

“Pretty sure you want to sleep _on the bed_ , in something other than your suit.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it just you, or am I that bad at handjobs? I think it’s just you. Or is being a Congressional Cumdump not your ultimate fantasy?”

“My ultimate fantasy is probably Susanne Modeski in a Catholic school uniform.” Byers ran his hands through his hair. “It just wasn’t a great position for me.”

“Hard to finish or something?” For once, Langly didn’t sound particularly mocking—he sounded more like he was debugging something Byers had written.

“Yeah. And I almost never feel properly ‘finished.’ Though whatever you did with that, uh, dildo worked.”

Langly leaned back on the pillows, and yeah, that was his problem-solving face. “Sounds like something to see a doctor about.”

“With what insurance?” Byers bit back the word ‘dumbass.’ Langly must’ve been rubbing off on him.

“Iunno. Maybe you’re just not getting off enough. Dick muscles out of shape. But you said the dildo helped?” Langly wiggled his fingers. “C’mon.”

“You didn’t seriously bring a dildo on a case?”

“No, dumbass. Fingers. Bet there’s something in the bathroom that’ll work for lube.”

And that was how Byers found himself bent over the toilet lid, naked from the waist down, waiting for Langly to finger him with hotel lotion. The bottle lid snapped open, and the air filled with the reek of artificial lavender.

“Here goes,” said Langly, laying a steadying hand on his back, and then Langly’s bony fingers pressed at and past his rim.

Byers cursed. The lotion stung; he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to go inside people. He made a deliberate effort to relax into it, and then Langly was rubbing the _good_ spot, and Byers could almost forget the stinging and the awful fake lavender scent. (And at least he knew better than to wash his hair with the hotel shampoo now.) He wasn’t getting hard, but he felt like he ought to be, as pleasure spread through his insides.

“Langly?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Are you humping my leg?”

“You’ve got a nice ass, and I’ve got my fingers in it. Sue me.”

“How on earth are you ready to go _again_?”

“My kung-fu is the best,” snarked Langly. He reversed the motion of his fingers, making awful movie martial arts noises. “You’re dripping like twice as much as when I was jerking you,” he said, after half a minute’s pause. “Byers, you’re a total buttslut. Seriously, you’re a complete waste as a straight dude.”

“I’m not a ‘buttslut’!”

“Okay, yeah, ‘slut’ probably isn’t accurate. The ‘butt’ part is, though. You’re getting off a lot harder this way than with your dick.”

“And your point is?” Byers was having an increasingly difficult time arguing in the face of the _rightness_ of Langly’s fingers moving inside him.

“I mean, it’s just my luck that when I find a guy who’s actually available on a reasonably regular basis, he’s even more of a bottom than I am, even if he doesn’t know it. I mean, I don’t fuck, I get fucked. Otherwise, I last about two seconds after getting it in. If I’m getting fucked, it lasts long enough to be _good_. And you’ve got like the opposite problem, but apparently the same solution. Also, fuck, you’re dripping jizz on the floor and that’s just hot.”

Byers hadn’t thought he was cumming. The sensation felt different, but maybe he was clenching a bit around Langly’s fingers. Maybe he really had been backed up in there. Was that even possible? Byers decided to find an encyclopedia at the next possible opportunity and see if it said anything about prostates getting ‘congested.’ If that was even the word. But as he craned his neck, peering past the mold-stained back of the toilet bowl, he could see a small pool of whitish liquid on the floor tiles. Langly kept pummeling that spot inside him, until Byers was so relaxed he almost fell off the toilet and nothing else was coming out of his dick.

Byers felt the fingers slip out, and that strange emptiness after. Langly was already wiping up the floor with a Kleenex. Byers noted a small wet spot near Langly’s fly. The man was obviously some kind of freak of nature. There was a joke there about fucking cryptids, but telling Langly to go hit on Mulder was probably comparable to telling him to jump off a bridge. (Did they even let gay people be FBI agents?) Instead, he wordlessly grabbed his pants and made a wobbly attempt to put them back on. Having succeeded in doing so without braining himself on the toilet tank, he wandered to “his” bed and pretended to organize what little of a casefile they had.

He wasn’t much more focused by the time Frohike came back. But, at the very least, after all that activity, he could feel justified not picking the breading off the chicken sandwich.


End file.
